Mirrors
by patient zero
Summary: Several years after the actions of the film, Warren faces a challenge he's not sure he can win. A sequel of sorts to my "Creature Comforts" fic, although this can serve as a stand-alone.


Warren entered the room, taking in the sparse furnishings but not really registering them. His eyes were stuck on the slouched, disheveled form seated in one of the two chairs. The fluorescent light overhead stole the warmth - what little there may have been, anyway - from the room. When the door closed behind him, Will's head shot up and a parody of a smile appeared on his face.

In the years since they first had met, Will had filled out. The gangly, unsure youth of that homecoming of his freshman year had become more like his famous father. He'd always had that innocent face, the one that took you seriously no matter what you said. The little knot of friends had taken advantage of that charming naivety for numerous jokes, and Will was always first to laugh. Now, Warren noted, that innocence was gone.

"Hey," he greeted in his low tone, his eyes searching Will's face carefully. "How're you holding up?"

Will shrugged and raked his fingers through his hair, gesturing for his friend to take the chair opposite. "I'm bored out of my mind, and this chair isn't comfortable at all."

Warren dragged the seat out and sat. They'd look like twins, dark-haired, their suits - prom finery - in various states of disarray. In both their cases, it had simply been the closest available attire. Warren's, however, looked salvagable. Will's was torn in some places, and Warren was desperately trying to ignore the dark splotches across the rumpled white of his friend's shirt.

"They've given me an entire gallon of coffee to drink though," Will quipped, smiling crookedly.

Warren tried to smile, but it got stuck behind the lump in his throat. "But you hate coffee."

"Yeah I know."

Silence eased around them as the friends looked at one another. Destined to be foes, people had commented back in the day. Their fathers had been enemies - the Commander and Baron Battle, sworn nemeses without mercy. That antagonism had ended with Battle's imprisonment, but popular opinion was that the sons would carry on the animosity.

Will had proved them all wrong; his determination and ready willingness to accept Warren trumped the resentment the older boy had felt at Will's arrival to school. He'd hated Will Stronghold, for having everything he never did, and thought he never would. But that all changed, and Warren had been shown that nothing was written in stone.

That was primarily why he was here now, in the crypt-like police station. Will had asked for him. He'd had to come.

"They're not telling me anything," Will finally said, his voice somber. He rubbed the back of his neck and stared at the ceiling. "I can't even remember how I got here. I asked to talk to my folks, but those guys said they couldn't come in."

Warren felt sick. Only years of self-inflicted solitude gave him the ability to hide his feelings behind an impassive mask. "But they let me in? Aren't they afraid we'd bust out?"

The other boy laughed, drumming his fingers on the table. "Seriously!"

Suppressing his revulsion, Warren cautiously licked his lips as he searched for the words. "Why ask for me then?"

"I'm sorry, Warren, I know you were with Amy--"

Unbidden, images of the girl who carried Warren's heart in her hands came to the fire-wielder. How she'd looked tonight, her shy smile at his reaction to seeing her. The way his gut wrenched pleasantly whenever she touched him.

"-- but you always know what's going on, and she always comes to you."

"Who does?" Warren asked, caught off-guard for a moment.

"Layla." A touch of despair took the color from Will's face. "I've asked to call her, and they keep ignoring me."

"Will . . ." He started, his voice flat as he struggled to keep himself in check. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to run away from his best friend and crawl in a corner to cry. He wanted, desperately, to find sanctuary in Amy's arms, to forget the entire night had happened. More than anything, though, he didn't want to be the person to tell Will. But, perversely, he couldn't think of anyone else who could do it.

"Is she mad at me?" Will's voice was filled with anxiety, his hands balled into fists. "Is that why she's not here?"

"No," Warren managed to reply lamely.

"Then what's going on? I've been here for hours, and no one can tell me anything!" He pounded his fists on the table. The officers outside had told Warren the room was equipped with power-dampeners, and that neither he nor Will could do anything but be normal inside. He had to trust them.

"You don't remember, do you?" the dark-haired boy asked. Will's blank look prompted him to continue. "What happened after prom, after you and . . . Layla went home. Back to your place."

"No . . ." Will replied, but with some hesitation.

"You guys left us after the party let out." Warren prompted, hating himself. "I know you flew the both of you back, to, uh, be alone."

They were quiet - Warren didn't have the courage to go on, staring at his friend as Will visibly seemed to be trying to remember. The heir to the Commander finally looked up, his face chalk-white.

"She looked so pretty tonight," he started, his voice a whisper. "We've only ever kissed. Tonight was supposed to be special."

Warren felt sick again, bile rising swiftly and he had to look away.

"We got home, and I asked if she wanted anything. She said, 'Just you.' And we were kissing."

Warren cast a look to the glass of the one-way mirror flanking one wall of the room, knowing that Will's parents were behind it. He had to get up; he shoved the chair back and struggled to his feet.

"We went upstairs. She was on my bed, her hair loose and she looked so beautiful, Warren. Just like that Greek goddess. And she wanted me, like no one else in the world mattered."

"Will . . ." Warren couldn't let the rest of the sentence out of his mouth. He didn't want to hear any more. Mr. and Mrs. Stronghold had already told him. He didn't need to add anything else to the images in his head.

". . . kissing her and touching her. She was, just everything, at that moment. You know how that is, don't you?" Will implored. "I couldn't get enough, but I was so nervous. I didn't know if I was doing anything wrong or . . ."

Warren squeezed his dark eyes shut as he turned to face the glass. He could feel Will's agonized eyes on his back, but his voice was drowned out in the white noise that dominated Warren's brain. It didn't want to know. It wanted to protect Warren from knowing too much.

" . . . stopped. I called her name a few times, but she must've fallen asleep. Or something. I was boring. Do you think I bored her, Warren?"

"No," Warren choked out, biting his lip.

"I decided to let her sleep. We'd had a long night, anyway, and I was kind of hungry. I was downstairs eating when Mom and Dad came home. And then all of this--" Will gestured to the barren room and his state of undress. "-- happened."

The lie came too easy. "I'm sure it'll get sorted out."

"Yeah," Will readily agreed.

"They're just . . . Will, my cell just went off. I think it's Layla. Do you--"

Will jumped to his feet. "You drove here? Can you bring her here?"

He nodded woodenly, throat closing up. He pretended to look at his cellphone. "Maybe I can get your parents in here."

Gratitude suffused Will's face. "You're my best friend, War, you know that?"

Warren finally looked at his friend, the earnest young man who'd inherited Jetstream's control over flight, and the Commander's Herculean strength. "I do. I'll be back, I promise."

Will crossed the room to clap a hand on his friend's shoulder. Warren placed his hand over Will's and took a breath, then broke away from the contact to head for the door. He heard Will cross the room and sit before opening the door and leaving the artificial light behind him. He glanced sideways, meeting gazes with Steve Stronghold. Josie, Steve's wife and Will's mother, had a fist pressed against her mouth to muffle the sobs that wracked her body. Two detectives stood silently behind them, too human to be able to conceal their expressions of disbelief and shock.

Steve came forward to clasp Warren's shoulder, the same gesture as his son's, but could say nothing. It was the older of detectives who had the ability to say anything, to break the cold silence. "Thank you. You can go now, son. We'll keep you updated."

Warren looked to the Commander, who nodded tersely and let go. Warren escaped then, not running like he wanted to, but never looking back, never seeing Josie reach for him but get intercepted by her husband. He made it down the hallway and around the corner before his control slipped; sheer luck had him near a trash can as the sickness of his heart manifested. He heaved and coughed and cried and shoved down the urge he had to howl his pain.

A cool hand touched his, joined by a second to push his hair from his face as the last of the contents of his stomach left him. Shaking and weak, he was lead by those hands to the relative peace of a men's room. Warren found himself in front of a sink, where he quickly rinsed the bile from his mouth as best he could, and washed the tears from his face. He held on to the cold porcelain of the sink as those gentle, familar hands rubbed his back, trying to ease his pain. Wearily he lifted his head to the mirror.

Pale and smudged with make-up ruined by crying, Amy met his eyes via the reflective surface. She was biting her lip, trying so hard to contain her own emotions. They'd been good friends. If it hadn't been for Layla and that 'Save the Citizens' challenge, Warren and Amy would have never really met.

And now she was gone.

Amy's captive lip wobbled, and her clear eyes were welling with tears again. Warren turned and held her close as she sobbed into his chest. He buried his face in her hair and simply held her, because there was nothing else he could do.


End file.
